Fever
by Reina Valeria Nox
Summary: Set early/mid Season 5. Sam is hurt on a hunt, and Dean is running a fever. Castiel steps in to help. Destiel one-shot. Rated M for Dean's inability to control himself even when he's sick. Please Review!


It's late when he finally kicks the door to their less-than-desirable motel room open. He's cursing like a mother, mingling oaths with blasphemy as sweat pours down his face in disgustingly thick drops. He's got Sam draped over him like a human blanket, the fact that his little brother has a good couple of inches on him is not helping their current situation. And then there's the blood. It's cascading out of Sam's shoulder like the rivers out of Eden whose names he doesn't care to remember. He's got a fever that's making his vision swim, and all he wants to do is jump into a scalding hot shower fully clothed. But he can't, because Sam is hurt bad, and Sam comes first.

Getting Sam into the bed isn't easy. He's been unconscious for a half hour and doesn't show any signs of waking up. Not that he wants his little brother to wake up any time soon. At least, not before he digs the bullet out of his shoulder and pumps him full of painkillers. But he still wishes Sam weighed a little less.

Their medical kit is low on supplies. It's been awhile since they've needed more than a suture kit and aspirin and it shows. There's all of one roll of bandages, the last of the medical tape, a couple pain pills, a half dose of morphine, a vial of antibiotics, a fourth of a bottle of antiseptic, and one syringe. He picks back up on the cursing, leaning heavily on the blasphemy. He's grateful Sam is unconscious.

He finds the bullet lodged high in the scapula, stuck halfway through the bone. It comes loose without a fight and he thinks for a split second that he should be praising God instead of cursing him for the fact that the damage is minimal, patchable by his hunter's skill. For a split second. He's back to cursing as he cleans the hole out with what is left of the antiseptic, and bandages it as conservatively as he can. When he's done he pops the top off the syringe and draws up the last bit of morphine. Only when his brother is tucked into bed, system flooded with painkillers, and he's flushing the used syringe down the toilet does he realize his vision is still swimming, he's freezing even with the two shirts and canvas jacket on his back, and God be damned does his head hurt.

He feels a bit awkward taking his own temperature, but doesn't have the stamina to care so much, especially when the device beeps in his ear and flashes 103.7 in bright red numbers in front of his face. A thought flashes through his mind that this might all be a dream. _Great, I'm probably hallucinating._ But he shakes the thought away, he can't afford it. Sam will need him soon and he can't be half dead when his little brother wakes up in pain.

He knows a fever that high demands medical intervention. He knows it means his body is fighting off some microscopic invader trying to cause even more serious, maybe even deadly harm. He needs to get that lone vial of antibiotics into his bloodstream. Easier said than done, especially when their last syringe had just gone to the porcelain god. _Wait, there's a syringe in the trunk._

The syringe is the same one he used to inject Alastair with holy water. Just looking it makes him sick. He tries not to think about it, about any of it. Hell and Alastair and torture and pain. He can barely stand by the time he brings it back into the motel and sets it on his bed by the open medical kit. His hands are clammy. He's shaking too hard to even hold the vial, let alone stab the needle into the cap. The needle he cannot even look at without flinching.

At this point he's considering calling Bobby. Way past considering it. But Bobby isn't home. He's out on a hunt somewhere with no cellphone reception. He knows because he's tried five times already, with every number he can remember.

He briefly thinks about calling an ambulance, but that thought is so out of the question. He's not coherent enough to explain Sam's wounds and with their guns stashed in the motel, and the Impala parked outside with Idaho license plates when they're in Mississippi, he can't take the chance of unanswerable questions.

The minutes are ticking by as he tries to work up the resolve to do something. _Buck up and be a man about it, Son._ That's what his father would say if he was there. It crosses his mind that he wishes his father were there, because then he wouldn't have to stab himself with the torture syringe. But his father is dead and he may not be sure about much but he's sure his ghost wouldn't be showing up anytime soon.

A sharp rap on the door gets his attention. "Who is it?" His voice is raspy. It suddenly takes a lot of strength to form words.

"Castiel." The monotone voice behind the door replies.

"Cas?" As soon as the name leaves his lips the angel is standing in front of him, staring at him curiously. "Hi." He says softly.

"You look awful."

"Thank you for stating the obvious, Cas."

"What happened?"

"Sam got shot on the hunt, and I'm running a fever." The back of the angel's hand is on his forehead and then his cheek and his neck. "Cas…what the hell are you doing?"

"Your dermal temperature is extremely high."

"I know that, thanks."

"You need medical attention."

"I'm aware." His green eyes roll up to meet the angel's brilliant blue ones. He loves that shade of blue. It's the color of the sky on a cloudless day. "We can't go to the hospital with Sam the way he is."

"I did not suggest we go to the hospital."

"Then what do you suggest? I'm useless, Cas. My vision is all but shot, my head feels like Michael's punching bag, and…" He tries not to look at the needle. He tries hard. "Our…our med kit needs restocking." It's not a lie, not the whole truth, but not a lie. He isn't about to let anyone, Castiel especially, know he's afraid of something as diminutive as a shot.

"Perhaps I could help?" He's back to blasphemy and oaths, at least in his head. The angel glances down at the paraphernalia on the bed. He picks up the vial of antibiotics and reads the label. "This is the correct medication for your illness." He loves his angel, but God he wishes Cas would learn not to state the obvious in every other sentence. Normally it's a quirk he lets go, but not tonight. Not when he feels like he's suffering through a fate worse than death. "Oh." He follows Cas's gaze and his stomach turns over when he sees him staring straight at the torture syringe. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to collect himself, trying not to appear as pathetic as he feels. When he opens his eyes again Cas is staring at him, his face full of concern, or at least as much concern as he's ever seen Cas muster. He stares at him for a long moment without speaking, and he wonder if the angel is reading his mind. "Yes." He answers. "I am reading your mind."

"Do you…get what the problem is?" He finally asks. Castiel nods in response.

"Do you…want my help?" He closes his eyes again, trying desperately to compose himself before he loses it completely. He nods once, his eyes protesting being opened again.

"Just…don't…don't…"

"I will not purposely harm you." _Fair enough_. Cas reaches for the syringe and stabs it into the vial. His eyes widen and he suddenly finds himself feeling extremely…nervous. The angel seems to notice because he turns away from him and fills the syringe outside his line of sight.

Resolving himself to his fate he drops the med kit to the floor while Cas's back is still turned and struggles to get out of his jacket and boots. He swings his legs unto the bed and props his head against the pillow. When Castiel turns back around he does his best to hide the needle from him. "Do you know what you're doing, Cas?" He has to ask even though he doesn't really want an answer.

"Yes." It doesn't make him feel better in the least. For all he knows Cas has tortured demons the same way Alistair tortured him, the way he tortured souls in hell. "Perhaps it would be best if you…turned over." It takes him a minute to register what the angel is telling him. When it does register he's not sure if he should swing at Cas or say yes to Michael, but he's fairly sure he's going to do one or both. "It would be in your best interest." Subtlety does not become Castiel. He's right, of course, the needle is too large for a vein and if Cas jabbed, and he was fairly certain jabbing would be Cas being gentle, him in the bicep his arm would be useless for days. Not that it posed a great deal of distress under any other circumstances, but with Sam already down an arm he couldn't risk them both being lame. It meant he only had one choice left.

"Just hurry up and get it over with." He doesn't mean to snap, but he really just wants it done with so he can sleep. He's still so cold. He feels the angel's hands on his pants. Under any other circumstance he'd love, rather physically, that Cas was undoing his jeans, but this was just uncomfortable and awkward. Still, he trusted Castiel. He tried to keep that at the forefront of his mind as he turned over unto his stomach and curled his arms around the pillow. _Please be quick._

Cas's hand is on his skin, folding his shirt up off his lower back. The angel's hand is warm, especially when he presses his thumb against his spine and rubs in deep, smooth circles. "Please try to relax." His angel mutters. He shutters and Cas seems to realize he's freezing.

Castiel does it without verbal warning. The bite of the metal as its jabbed deep into the muscle makes him yelp in pain, but the sting and then burn that follows as the medicine is pushed sends visions of hellfire. He's begging in his mind. _Stop. Please. Don't. Sam._ The four pleads he always made in hell. He sets his jaw around the fabric of the pillowcase, biting down as hard as possible. Cas's hand is flat again his back, holding him down with angel strength until the injection is finished. The needle comes loose, and he feels worse instead of better.

He hears metal clatter unto the nightstand and Cas's hand is gone. There's a dip on the other side of the bed. Strong arms roll him unto his side and then pull him back to meet the warmth of a human body. "I've got you." The angel whispers. The same words he first spoke to him in hell. "I'm not going to let you go."

The next time his eyes open he's vomiting bile into the trash can. His ass hurts, but it's dull compared to the ache in the rest of his body. His angel's hands are rubbing his back again, and he's surprised that he's stuck around.

The second time he feels somewhat better, but his fever still hasn't broken. "Sam okay?" He asks. His throat is sore from puking.

"Sam is fine. Go back to sleep." _Okay._

The third time he wakes up sweaty. Castiel helps him out of his shirts and jeans, and covers him with the lightest blanket. The angel strips himself of his own clothes and climbs back into the bed beside him. He settles into his arms and tries to go back to sleep.

The fourth time it's morning and Sam is awake. He stares at his big brother but doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. "Go back to sleep, Sam. We've got the room for another night." He tells him as he passes him the pain pills. Sam doesn't argue.

The fifth time he feels more like himself. Sam is asleep again as he sits up and pads across the floor to the bathroom. Cas follows closely behind him, closing the door behind them as they enter the dingy room. The water isn't hot, but he doesn't want it that way. He just wants to scrub remains of the fever out. Cas doesn't touch him much. He figures he doesn't want that kind of attention. Instead he rubs soap softly down his back and moves him under the shower's spray. His hair isn't long enough to do much with but Cas still brushes it back with his fingers, staring into his eyes.

He watches the angel dress with curiosity. It's rare for Cas to actually physically put his clothes on. He likes it when he does though, for some reason he can't place. When the angel is finished he carries clean clothes over to his bed and sets himself on the floor. "What are you doing?" He asks quietly.

"Dressing you." He takes the boxers from the top of the pile and sets his feet into the holes. He gets them to his knees before he stops Cas and puts both hands on the angel's shoulders. Cas looks up at him with those wide blue eyes and then down to the hardened appendage between his legs. The boxers fall back to the floor as the angel leans forward and swallows him whole. He thrusts his hips forward, and Cas grabs unto them. He runs his fingers through the angel's hair, moaning softly as Cas's tongue works along his shaft. He thrusts again, and Cas is freakin humming, the vibration driving him to the edge. A third thrust, Cas's mouth is so warm and wet around him that it doesn't take much before he reaches release. He puts his fist in his mouth to muffle the ecstatic sounds as he organisms. The angel swallows twice before letting him go and resuming dressing him. This time he feels a ping of sadness as he gets up to allow Cas to pull his jeans unto his hips. "I know you want more." The angel's voice interrupts his thoughts. "But not today."

"Tomorrow?" He asks, maybe a little too eager.

"Tonight. Maybe." He's pulling the familiar black t-shirt over his head. It falls down around his torso and clings to his abs. Cas shoves his arms into the sleeves of his dark blue shirt and pulls it firmly over his chest. He stares at the angel, right into those blue eyes he loves so much.

The kiss is soft, like Castiel's lips. He moves his head from side to side, drinking in the taste. But it's only a taste. Cas won't let things go too far. He pushes him back down unto the bed a moment later.

The food he bought before the hunt is still by the corner, and the angel hunts through the bag until he finds the peanut butter sandwich and ginger ale stashed at the bottom. He brings it over to him and he takes it reluctantly. His appetite isn't quite back yet, but he eats anyway, because it makes Cas happy.

"Dean?" The sound of his name startles him. He looks away from the tv towards the other bed.

"Hey Sammy." He says softly, getting up and going over to his brother. "How you feeling?"

"Better." He checks his brother's shoulder and helps him sit up. Sam stares at him. "Are you okay? You're pale."

"I'm fine, Sammy." He lies. It's better this way. He doesn't need Sam worried about him. They've got enough to worry about. Tomorrow they need to be back on the road, hunting down Colt so they can kill the devil.

"Promise?"

"I promise."


End file.
